Three Weeks in Hell
by Aireon Maris
Summary: Dean Winchester was in Hell for longer than forty years. But he hadn't lied when he told his brother that. He simply didn't remember all of it.
1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester was in Hell for longer than forty years. But he hadn't lied when he told his brother that. He simply didn't remember all of it.

It had taken the angels nearly seven years by Hell's reckoning to break through the first defenses. They descended in blinding light, bolts of divine justice assaulting the Pit. But it was all merely a distraction. One angel, his Grace subdued to nearly nothing, broke off from his brethren and shot like an unlit comet into Hell. His gunmetal-gray wings did not blaze with glory and his sword, held naked in one hand, did not flame with righteous wrath. In fact, with the spectacle of the struggle overhead, he went nearly undetected.

The angel flitted among the chains and racks, deaf to the screams and pleas of the damned. He was searching, desperately and intensely, for one specific broken soul. He had to descend to the seventh circle until he found what he was looking for. The soul was so shattered, so steeped in blood and pain that it was nearly unrecognizable. The angel stooped low and alighted on the rocky ledge where the soul stood by a torture rack, completely ignoring what was going on overhead. Upon seeing the angel, the soul immediately went on the defensive, raising one of its torture tools as if to attack the angel.

The angel attempted to speak, to reassure the broken soul, but it had been so many centuries since he had communicated with a human that his voice overwhelmed it, sending it trembling to a corner in fear and pain. The angel paused, angry with himself, and tempered his voice.

"I am here to help you," he told the soul. "I am here to bring you out of this place."

The soul quivered and did not reply. The angel moved forward, only to have the soul withdraw even further. It only belatedly occurred to the angel that the soul might find his appearance frightening, so he reformed his body into something resembling human. He stretched out a hand.

"I will not harm you," he said. "Please. You must come with me now. We don't have much time." When the soul still didn't respond, the angel grew impatient and strode forward, ignoring the soul's attempts to escape. He reached down and took hold of the soul by his left shoulder.

For one brief, uncontrolled moment, the angel's Grace flared brilliant white in Hell's gloom. He was caught off-guard by the flash of power and was not swift in containing it. The soul screamed in fear and pain, prompting the angel to release it. He looked down. On the soul's shoulder, where the angel had gripped him, was a perfect hand-print, gleaming in shifting blue-white.

The angel stared down at the mark. He had never seen anything like this before. He had no knowledge of this happening. Of course, they had never tried to rescue a soul from Hell before, so it could be perfectly normal, for all he knew. The soul was keening in pain, rocking back and forth and trying to cover up the mark with its hands.

The howls of approaching demons shook the angel out of his reverie. The release of Grace had attracted attention to their location. They didn't have long until a legion of demons descended on them, and though he was a mighty warrior of God, the angel didn't like his odds alone. So, ignoring the soul's cries, he seized it around the waist and flung them both into the air, his wings carrying them upward.

But it was too late. To the angel's horror, he saw the last of his brethren retreating from the Pit, and the gates of Hell sealing themselves behind the Host. He had taken too long in his task and his brothers, thinking him lost, had abandoned the mission. The angel desperately tried to contact his superiors, begging for orders, but he was given only silence in return. He was alone, cut off, and trapped in Hell.

The angel was a being created to follow orders. It was his entire existence. Now that he had none, he was at a loss for what to do. There was also a distressingly large horde of demons hunting the seventh level for him, their bloodthirsty cries sending chills through his temporarily-corporeal body. The soul's struggles were getting more frantic so the angel, with little other options, flung himself toward the nearest cave in the Pit wall.

It was, thankfully, empty, so the angel pushed the soul in rather unceremoniously and drew a barrier across the opening of the cave. It would hopefully be enough to keep them undetected for the moment. The effort it took to keep his Grace contained was greatly taxing, but he knew the consequences should he lose control—again.

The soul had retreated to the furthest reaches of the cave, still nursing the shoulder with the strange mark. The angel stared at the soul, somewhat nonplussed. He was not accustomed to thinking for himself, and the prospect of having to do so was daunting. Leaving the soul for the moment, the angel turned to the mouth of the cave, gazing across at the Pit beyond.

Hell was even worse than he had imagined, a seething, repulsive hive of the damned, filled with blood and wrath and nightmares. The stench of blood and hot metal permeated the air, and a crimson light filled the place. For the first time since he watched the greatest of the archangels plunge from Heaven, he felt afraid.

Shaking out his wings as if to shake away the unwanted emotion, the angel retreated from the cave mouth and returned to the soul, which had stopped rocking back and forth and was now staring accusingly at the angel. It was a mere shade of a human, gray and wispy, its only color coming from the blood and pain clinging to its skin like filth. Disgusted by its state, the angel tried to cleanse some of the grime away with his Grace, but the soul flinched away from his holy touch.

Frustrated and losing patience, the angel crouched until he was on eye-level with the human. "I am not going to hurt you," he said again. "I was sent to rescue you. Do you understand me? I am your ally."

The soul stared at him blankly, not comprehending his words. The angel flared his wings angrily. "Do you know what I am?" he demanded. "I am an angel of the Lord. My name is Castiel."

There was still no recognition on that face, a ravaged reflection of what it had been in life. The angel, Castiel, leaned forward. "My name is Castiel," he repeated slowly. "And you—your name is Dean Winchester."

For one brief, unmistakable moment, those colorless eyes flashed green.

XxxXxxX

It was like waking up from a nightmare. He remembered the pain, decades of it, taken apart piece by piece, healing, only for it to begin again. Screams—his own, always screaming. And then, and then...freedom, of a sort. The taste of blood on his lips and destruction at his fingertips. And then they weren't his screams, but other voices, drawn by his own hands like a conductor enticing music from an orchestra.

But something had changed now. There was a voice close by, not screaming, not urging him on to greater acts of depravity. No, it was calm, gentle even, appealing to that distant part of him that was still human, still alive...

It was so hard, to pull himself from the morass of blood and pain and darkness. The memories that he had spent years trying to suppress came sliding back, the memories of his humanity, shining bits that made his darkness even more foul by comparison. He struggled against it, growling and snarling in feral desperation to drown out the returning light.

_It was too late. He was too far gone. The darkness was easier, safer, hiding the guilt and shame. He was evil-bad-no good-a failure. He deserved the darkness, the fear, the wretched agony._

"I am not going to hurt you."

_It had been a long, long time since anyone had not tried to hurt him._

"I was sent to rescue you."

_No! Must not hope. Hope was false, just another way for them to rip and tear and cut. There was no hope. There was no rescue._

"I am your ally."

_He had no allies. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone._

"My name is Castiel."

_There were no names in the Pit. No identities. Just blood and pain and death, death, death._

"Your name is Dean Winchester."

The soul felt himself go still. For one brief, shining moment, he remembered._ My name is Dean Winchester._ The memories slipped away but he clung to that thought._ My name is Dean Winchester._ It was a lifeline, pulling him from the turgid waters. It was slow, painful, but gradually his mind began to clear.

"My name is Dean Winchester." The words were hardly more than a croaking whisper, forced from unwilling lips by a reluctant tongue. He blinked, and for the first time in years, was aware of his surroundings. He let out a yell of surprise and scrambled backwards until his back hit a hard, rock wall.

It was shaped more or less human, but was so fundamentally_ not_. Its arms were too thin and long, jointed wrong. Its body was similar, too long and thin, too supple, covered with armored plates that were too regular to be natural. Its face had the appropriate features, but its eyes were over-large and spaced wide apart, solid gold with neither pupil nor sclera. Its skin was completely smooth and flawless, and pure white. A pair of dark gray wings draped around it like a cloak, the feathers appearing to be made from cloud and smoke.

He stared up at it, wondering what it was and why it was there. It gazed back at him, its expression unreadable. Neither seemed inclined to speak first. It stirred, feathers shifting restlessly, and a responding flash of sensation shot through his shoulder. He tore his eyes from the other and looked down. Seared into his flesh was a hand-print, glimmering in shifting blue-white light. It felt like heat and ice, prickling and soothing all at once. He reached up and fitted his hand over the mark, and the other twitched.

"You said your name," it spoke, and its voice was like a bronze bell, thrumming and humming with bass undertones and a shrill vibrato.

His head shot up again. "My name is Dean Winchester," he declared firmly.

The other nodded. "Yes. I told you my name. Do you remember?"

He frowned slightly. "Castiel," he said slowly, remembering the words that had drawn him back from the darkness.

The other nodded again. "Yes. I am Castiel."

He eyed the other warily. "What are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

The other emitted a sound like a bow being drawn across the lowest strings of a cello. "I am an angel of the Lord," it said in a flat tone. "I am here to bring you out of the Pit."

"Angels aren't real," he said, the words coming automatically. The other only stared at him with the blank, gold eyes. He shifted uneasily. "Why me?" he demanded. "Why rescue me?"

"Because I was ordered to do so," the one called Castiel replied. The multi-layered tonality of its voice echoed and vibrated in the enclosed space.

He pushed to his feet, using the cave wall to haul himself up. The other rose effortlessly as he did so. "But why me?" he asked again. "I sold my soul to a demon. Why should I get rescued?"

"I was ordered to bring you out of the pit," Castiel said again.

"But_ why_?" he spat. "Why would_ angels_ care about me? What did I ever do to deserve this?" The angel was silent, still staring with its blank eyes and expressionless face. The human soul crossed his arms defiantly. "What if I refuse to go?" he demanded.

"Why would you refuse?" the angel asked, sounding perplexed, though its face remained as blank as ever. He scowled, unable to think of a reason.

"What do you want in return?" he growled.

"I was told to bring you out of the Pit, nothing more," the angel replied.

"Nobody does stuff for nothing," he pushed.

The angel tilted its head to the right. "Sometimes good things do happen," it said softly.

"Not to me," he said belligerently.

The angel made that strange sound again, only this time it sounded like a violin, soft and crooning. It looked over its shoulder. "The demons should have passed us. We should move on." It stepped to the mouth of the cave and there was a shimmer like an invisible curtain parting.

He edged forward, reluctant to get too near the angel. What he saw beyond the cave mouth made a swirl of nausea swirl in his gut. There was a sheer drop outside the cave, inaccessible to anything except the air. The angel poked its head out and looked around. Then it reached back toward him. He stepped out of reach. The angel turned to stare at him, wide-eyed.

"What is it?" it demanded.

He scowled, unwilling to admit the reason behind his reluctance. But the angel continued staring at him expectantly. "I don't like heights," he finally admitted.

The angel blinked for the first time, so suddenly that Dean jumped in response. "Dean," it said gravely. "You are dead. There is no reason to fear what will not harm you."

Trust an angel to be so damn logical. He scowled even harder. "I still don't like it," he muttered.

The angel looked back out the cave mouth. "If you have another option, I'm willing to hear it," it said.

He wracked his mind, but could come up with nothing. "Fine," he finally muttered, shuffling forward. The angel reached out again and wrapped its arms around his chest.

"I won't drop you, Dean," the angel murmured into his ear, and then flung them both into space.

XxxXxxX

It took everything in Castiel to hold himself back. The oppressive weight of Hell bore down on his Grace, making him ache to fling off his disguise and shine pure, holy light into the unclean places. But he didn't dare risk the precious cargo in his arms, the trembling, delicate soul of Dean Winchester.

His strong wings carried them upwards, though his way was often blocked by webs of chains and nasty little things that darted to and fro on bat-like membranes. He was constantly on the alert for any signs of demons, his senses strained to their capacity.

Dean was silent and grim, back pressed to Castiel's chest and hands clamped on the arms that held him in place. He felt spectral and insubstantial, no weight to burden Castiel. His form had no temperature, either, except for the mark on his shoulder, where it brushed against Castiel's. He could feel the heat-ice sensation through his armor, piercing down to his very Grace. It confused him, this mark. He would have to question his superiors when they returned to Heaven.

Castiel winced at the thought of his home. He did not like his chances of succeeding in his mission on his own, but he knew he had no choice but to try. Even if he perished in the attempt, it was crucial to get Dean Winchester out of Hell. Perhaps if he could simply get him to the surface, then Castiel's brothers would sense his presence, and all would not be lost.

Distracted by his worries, Castiel did not sense the danger until it was too late. The smoke-form of a demon boiled towards him, manifesting a screaming face and a pair of clawed hands. Castiel freed one arm and summoned his sword, slashing at the demon. It howled furiously and fell back, but not before Castiel felt searing pain down his wings.

The first demon had only been a distraction to allow a cloud of others to descend on the angel, ripping at his wings. Castiel tried to wrench away, but they grasped at him from all sides, their talons sinking into his flesh and shredding. They shrieked in triumph, gibbering happily as they tore at him.

Castiel writhed in their grasp, trying desperately to defend himself and protect Dean at the same time. The human was fighting with his bare hands, striking at any demon that came within range. But more descended on them with every moment, their cries attracting still more. Castiel felt his hold on his corporeal form grow weak and, having no other choice, simply let go.

The detonation of Grace started small, Castiel's form dissolving into an orb of intense, white light. Then it exploded outward in wave after wave of sacred energy, incinerating every demon it touched. Hell erupted into a cacophony of outrage, every demon, every monster, every unclean thing clamoring in protest and howling for revenge. Every last one of them abandoned their tasks and flung themselves toward the Grace, hoping to be the first to reach the injured angel.

XxxXxxX

When the light faded, Dean found himself lying on solid ground. He opened his eyes cautiously. He was alone. There was no sign of the angel. In the distance, the echoes of hunting cries bounced from rock to rock. Dean pushed himself to his feet. There were a few torture racks nearby, the victims abandoned by their inquisitors. Dean ignored them and looked around. He was in the ninth level of Hell, only just above the bottom of the Pit. He shivered. He'd never been this deep before.

Dean wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next. The angel had told him it would get him out of here. He tried to remember what it looked like topside. He had a vague impression of wide, open spaces, a sea of blue, and air that didn't reek of blood and brimstone. He shook his head. He had to find the angel. Even if it couldn't keep its promise, Dean wasn't about to abandon it in Hell. It didn't stand a chance.

He set off walking before that thought stopped him cold. What did _he_ care if the angel died? Since when did anything matter to him except that_ he_ wasn't on the rack, that _his_ screams of pain weren't echoing in the crimson air? Muttering curses under his breath, Dean stomped off towards the next level.

It wasn't hard for him to move about unnoticed. Most of the demons were searching for the angel, and a single broken-down soul was of little interest to them now. He slunk among the stones, winding through the chains, always making his way upwards. He wasn't sure where he was supposed to start looking for the angel, but he knew that his best chances were in the upper levels.

Dean reached the barrier between the ninth and eighth levels, and stood there for a moment, staring at it. It was a hedge of vines, so tangled that he could barely see through the thicket. Growing from the vines were thorns as long as his forearm, black and shiny with razor points. The pathetic, shredded remains of souls were caught on the thorns like bits of wool.

Dean stretched out his hands and tried to pull the vines apart, but one of the thorns caught his wrist and he hissed in pain, jerking backwards. A wisp of his form pulled free, trailing from the point of the thorn. Dean clutched his arm as if to stem the throbbing pain that spread from the injured limb to the rest of his insubstantial body. He gazed at the hedge in despair. How was he possibly supposed to get past it?

He lowered himself to the hard, hot ground, wracking his mind for any idea. But the pain was a distraction and his mind wandered. He had sold his soul to a crossroads demon. That was why he was in Hell. He had chosen, knowingly, to condemn himself. Why, then, did an angel think he was worth redeeming?

"_You're my brother, and I'd do anything for you."_

It was like a bolt of lightning striking him with such force that he nearly toppled sideways. The memory burned bright in his mind's eye. A face filled with absolute trust, laughing, crying, screaming in anger, and calling his name. A boy curling up to his side, seeking protection from the monsters in the dark. A man supporting his injured body as they sought shelter.

His brother.

Dean's eyes opened wide, and though he couldn't see, their color darkened, grew more intensely green, shining out from his colorless, wispy body like bright stars. "I have a brother," he whispered to himself.

And then another memory, cradling a heavy, unresponsive weight in his arms as precious blood slipped through his fingers and a last breath rattled in his ears.

"_SAM!"_

"Sam." He breathed the name like a prayer. He had a brother named Sam. That's why he was in Hell. He'd traded his soul for Sam's life.

The hedge of thorns rattled, making Dean jump. The vines were writhing angrily, twisting and flailing in fury, but they were_ receding_. They pulled away, parting enough to form a narrow opening. Dean leaped to his feet and bolted forward, unsure of how long the hedge would be parted and not daring to waste a single moment. He turned out to be correct because the thorns rattled back into place the moment he was through and into the eighth circle.

The eighth circle didn't look much different than the ninth, still eerily empty of demons. He looked around, uncertain for a moment, and then began trudging upwards. He hadn't got far, maybe a mile or two, when the mark on his shoulder began thrumming. He'd almost forgotten about it, already growing used to the way it glimmered at the corner of his eye. But now it was practically humming against his skin, and it was freaking him out.

He stared down at it but it hadn't visibly changed, still swirling blue-white. But he could hear it in his chest and in the back of his teeth, like the bass turned down so low your ears could barely pick it up. He reached up and fitted his right hand over the mark. He abruptly lurched sideways as if yanked by an invisible hand.

"What the—?" he muttered to himself, snatching his hand away. He waited to see if anything else would happen, but the mark just kept thrumming. Cautiously, he placed his hand over it again, and once more he stumbled sideways. "All right, all right," he mumbled, turning and starting to walk in that direction, his hand still covering the mark. "Freakin' angels..."

One mile turned into two, and then five, and still Dean was following the tug and hum of the handprint on his shoulder. At one point he had to navigate a nasty maze of razor-sharp glass, but thankfully his mostly-insubstantial body didn't suffer too much damage. He dodged into cover when a demon bounded by, driving a whole pack of hellhounds in front of it. Dean had yet to get over his fear and revulsion of the beasts. Being able to see their true form only made it worse.

Finally, after what seemed like an entire day, Dean clambered down into a narrow gulch and was confronted by something he was certain did not belong in hell. It was a great sphere, about ten feet in diameter, and completely covered in feathers. They were all gray, ranging in shade from pale silver to nearly-black. It floated a few feet above the ground, suspended by multiple wings that unfurled from the sphere, flapped a few times, and folded back into place, constantly shifting over the surface.

Dean walked around it a couple of times and pressed his hand to the mark on his shoulder. It had definitely led him to this...thing. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um...hello?" About half a dozen eyes blinked open, scattered around the sphere like bright jewels amidst the feathers. Dean jumped backwards in surprise, but the eyes were all fluttering weakly shut again.

_Dean..._ He heard the word in his head rather than with his ears, but he instantly recognized the orchestral voice.

"Castiel?" he demanded in consternation, staring at the creature in front of him.

_Dean..._ came the angel's voice again.

"It is you," Dean whispered. "Okay... This is...creepy, but I think we can handle it. Um...are you okay?"

_No. The attack weakened me._ Another half dozen eyes winked open, focused on Dean, and slid shut again._ I must rest...regain my strength._

"Okay," Dean said again. "What do you need me to do?"

_Keep watch. Ensure we are not discovered._

"Yeah, I can do that," Dean said. He looked around the gulch again. "How long do you think it'll take?"

_I don't know_. The angel's voice sounded exhausted and strained. Dean nodded slowly.

"Okay, then." He scrambled out of the gulch and examined it from the top. The angel was barely visible, well-concealed from the casual eye. Dean sat on the edge and looked down at the angel. "I have a brother," he announced suddenly. "His name is Sam. I sold my soul for him."

Castiel was silent for a long moment._ I...know,_ the angel said, and there was a strange emotion Dean couldn't identify._ He misses you._

Dean absorbed that quietly. He wished he remembered more about Sam other than his face and the fact that he would do anything—literally_ anything—_for his little brother. He wished he remembered more about his life other than scattered images and vague impressions.

Castiel's wings rippled and a single eye opened amid the feathers nearest Dean, a brilliant blue with a dilated pupil. It studied Dean for a long moment. Dean stared back. Then, gathering up his courage, Dean asked, "So, do all of your kind look like this?" and waved vaguely in the angel's direction.

_This is one of my many forms_, Castiel replied, the blue eye still focused on Dean._ I find it most conducive to my healing._

"Oh," Dean said. "Kind of crappy for you, though, pulling the short straw."

The eye winked._ I don't understand..._ The angel sounded puzzled.

"You know," Dean said with another vague wave. "Coming down here by yourself, trying to pull me out. Couldn't they spare you any back up? Your bosses?"

_Many of my brethren came,_ Castiel said in an unmistakably stiff tone._ We assaulted Hell's gates for seven years. I was chosen to retrieve you, but I lingered too long. They were forced to retreat._

Dean was taken slightly aback. "Sucks, dude," he finally murmured. "Sorry about that."

_You are not at fault_, Castiel replied coolly. Dean scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and went back to watching the ravaged landscape.

Time meant very little in Hell. There was no waxing or waning of the carmine light, no stars or moon or even sky by which to tell time's passing. There was simply the present, stretching out into agonizing infinity, each moment identical to the last. So Dean had no idea how long he sat in silence, watching monsters creep and ooze and scuttle past in the distance.

There was a soft sound, like the sigh of feathers and silk, and then a quiet thud. Dean looked down. Castiel had once more taken the humanoid shape, but there were scars and dark stains on the armor, and the wings looked tattered at the edges. The angel's expression was as blank and still as ever as the golden eyes fixed on Dean.

"I believe I am ready to continue on," the angel said solemnly. Dean scrambled down into the gulch to stand in front of the angel.

"Are we gonna fly again?" he asked apprehensively, not looking forward to that particular mode of transportation.

Castiel spread the insubstantial-looking wings, examining them silently for a few moments. "I am not completely recovered yet. We will have to travel by foot."

"Okay," Dean said quickly in relief. Castiel touched the hilt of the sheathed sword and turned to face the uphill slant of the gulch.

"This way." The angel started walking without seeing if Dean would follow. Dean caught up in a fewlong strides, but found that he couldn't walk comfortably next to the angel, not with the constant movements of the storm-cloud wings. So he settled for trailing along behind, scowling at the angel's back and wondering why it bothered him so much.

"You been here before?" he finally asked when the silence became too much.

Castiel turned to look at Dean without stopping his forward motion. "No," the angel replied. "Why do you ask that?"

Dean gestured vaguely. "You seem to know your way around."

The angel turned front again. "I was given what information I would need to complete my mission."

"But it's been done before," Dean pressed. "Souls rescued from Hell? I mean, how would you people know what Hell looks like if you hadn't been here before?"

"Heaven's knowledge encompasses all things," was Castiel's neutral reply. After a moment, the angel continued, "It has never been done before."

Dean blinked at the angel's back. "What?" he asked blankly.

"We have never rescued a soul from Hell before," Castiel repeated dutifully.

Dean stopped in his tracks. Castiel, perhaps sensing Dean's faltering, stopped as well and turned to face the human soul. "Never?" Dean echoed.

Castiel said nothing, not seeing the point of repeating the words a third time. Dean continued to stare at the angel. As the moments of silence stretched, Castiel's head tilted inquiringly. "What is wrong?"

"You've never rescued a soul from Hell, but you decided to start with me?" Dean demanded.

The angel made that musical cello sound, and it abruptly struck Dean that the angel was sighing. "I told you before, Heaven chose to save you. I was ordered to bring you out of the Pit."

"But you didn't tell me_ why_," Dean snarled in a flash of anger.

"I don't know why," the angel replied, and for the first time there was an edge to the symphonic voice. "I was given orders. I follow my orders. That is all I know."

"You never asked?" Dean forgot his anger in confusion.

"Why would I question my Father's orders?" the angel asked wearily.

Dean blinked a few times. Something clicked in his head at the angel's words. He understood the sentiment, he just didn't remember why. A father's orders were sacrosanct, to be followed at all costs, to whatever end.

Weren't they?

Castiel turned and started trudging back up the gulch, wingtips dragging along the stones. Dean shook his head to clear it and hurried to catch up.

XxxXxxX

Castiel reached the limit to his strength not long after that last conversation. His Grace had recovered enough to allow him to assume another shape, but little more. He did not wish Dean to know how weak he was; he did not want the human doubting his ability to defend them should the need arise. But his fears were allayed when he ground to a halt somewhere near the border to the seventh circle, and Dean immediately plopped down onto the nearest comfortable-looking patch of rock and promptly lost consciousness.

For a moment Castiel was alarmed, afraid that his charge had somehow taken injury. It was only gradually that he realized that Dean was asleep. He stared down at the human. The souls of the damned were not allowed rest or respite from their torment. That Dean could sleep at all was proof of his returning humanity. The knowledge heartened Castiel. Perhaps not all was lost, after all.

Gingerly, mindful of his injured wings, Castiel lowered himself to the ground next to the human. He did not allow his attention to wander; Hell was lethal to one of his kind and he couldn't afford to let his guard down.

Dean slept fitfully, twitching and quivering. His soul-form had become more solid, color beginning to return to his flesh. Castiel reached out and brushed Dean's skin with the tip of one finger. There was a barely-detectable warmth. More proof that Dean Winchester could be saved. The human moaned softly and Castiel wondered what he saw in his dreams, but could not spare the energy to peer inside Dean's mind. So instead he returned the favor Dean had done him earlier and kept watch while the other recovered.

Dean flinched himself awake, rising up with a rock clenched in his fist. Castiel reacted before he could stop himself, whirling away from the soul and drawing his sword in a smooth, unthinking motion. Dean startled, dropped the rock, and scrambled backwards, raising one hand to shield his face. Cursing himself, Castiel sheathed his sword.

"I apologize," he said gently. "I did not intend to alarm you."

Dean looked as frustrated and embarrassed as Castiel felt. He dropped his arm and cleared his throat. "Yeah, no problem." He looked around. "How long was I asleep?"

Castiel shuffled his wings together. "Does it matter? Are you ready to move on, now? We should not stay in one place too long."

The truth of his words were realized a moment later when a hellhound leaped over the edge of the gully and landed square on Castiel's shoulders, driving him face-first into the stony ground. Castiel tried to push himself up, to throw off the beast, but the hellhound's weight kept him pinned down. It clawed at his armor, talons screeching and throwing off sparks as hot slaver sprayed the back of Castiel's neck.

The hound yelped and flinched, shifting its weight enough for Castiel to roll out from underneath it, knocking it to the ground. Without rising from his back, Castiel drew his sword and thrust it into the hellhound. The blade pierced its shoulder, not a killing blow, but at least a crippling one. Before Castiel could rise and finish the beast off, Dean appeared with another rock in his hand. He brought it down on the hound's skull with all his strength, lips peeled back in a savage snarl.

Dean beat the hellhound until it stopped struggling, until its head was a pulpy mass of pulverized bone and brain matter. Castiel watched in fascination and trepidation. He'd seen humans kill before, seen such feral anger, and it had never boded well.

Dean finally let the rock fall from his fingers and backed away from the corpse of the hellhound. He was spattered with its blood and brains, but he didn't seem to care. He looked around, his expression slightly dazed, and then he walked over to Castiel to offer him his hand. Castiel looked from Dean's face to the outstretched hand, and then allowed the human to help him to his feet.

"You all right?" Dean asked, looking Castiel up and down.

"I believe so," Castiel replied, quickly making his own inspection.

Dean looked over Castiel's shoulder and his eyes widened. "Good, because here comes more."

Castiel whirled around and Dean ducked to avoid his wing. Three demons drove a pack of at least a dozen more hellhounds down the ravine towards them. Castiel tightened his grip on his sword. "Stay behind me," he ordered tightly.

Dean stooped to snatch up a fresh rock. "Not a chance," he replied. "We're not getting out of here alone, right?"

Castiel glanced at him quickly and the human grinned, white teeth flashing in his dirty, blood-smeared face. "Correct," he admitted.

"There you go," Dean said, still grinning.

They both lunged forward at the same time to meet the first hound.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean surveyed the carnage. Two of the hounds had escaped, but the rest, and their handlers, lay scattered on the ground around himself and the angel, several in multiple pieces. The human was covered in blood and other fluids, and the angel was little better off. Dean looked over at Castiel. The angel was uselessly rubbing at the stains on his armor, making small, unhappy noises like the plucking of cello strings.

"How you holding up?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked up from his fruitless attempts. "I should be asking you that," he said. As usual, there was no expression on his face, but his voice betrayed his disapproval. "I am your guardian."

Dean jabbed his finger at the angel. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't need a bodyguard. But if we're gonna get out of here, I need a wingman. We watch each other's backs. Got it?"

Castiel blinked slowly, deliberately. "Wingman," he repeated, tasting the sound of the word. He nodded. "Yes. I can be your wingman."

"Awesome," Dean replied, flashing the angel a grin. "Now let's get out of here before anyone comes to investigate."

Castiel nodded wearily and sheathed his sword. Then he reached up to remove his helmet. Dean ogled for a moment, not having realized that the helmet was, in fact, removable. Tucking the armor under one arm, Castiel ran the other hand through his thick shock of ink-black hair. Disheveled from the helmet, it stuck out in all directions, giving the angel an almost endearing look. Castiel shook his head like a dog, smoothed his hair back, and replaced the helmet.

Dean looked at the angel, really_ looked_ at him for the first time since he woke up in the cave. Somewhere between then and now, Castiel's strange form had ceased to be eerie and the blank face had stopped being creepy. Dean was finally starting to get a read on his companion, and for the first time, was thinking of him as a person.

Castiel turned to look at Dean, an inquiring tilt to his head. "Are you ready to move?"

Dean shook himself back to the present. "Yeah. Let's go. The sooner we blow this joint, the better."

"I have no intention of causing another explosion," Castiel said gravely.

For the first time in forty years, Dean laughed. It was little more than a dry chuckle, but it felt good. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder. "Probably a good idea," he agreed, and started walking.

They heard the water before they reached it. At first they couldn't identify the constant, unending roar and crash, fearing it was some hellish beast descending on them. It was Castiel who finally recognized the sound of running water.

It cut straight across their path, wide and swift, flowing down deeper into the pit. The water was black, mottled with white froth, and the bottom was hidden from sight. Dean approached it warily, but Castiel hung back, reluctant. Dean tested his fingertips in the water, and when he suffered no ill effects, plunged both hands in, scooping it out to scrub across his arms, face, and neck.

The water smelled faintly of brimstone, but it washed the blood and grime from Dean's skin and really, he had gotten used to the scent of sulfur by now. He looked over his shoulder at the angel. "C'mon," he called. "It's safe."

Castiel inched forward as if he was approaching the edge of a cliff, as suspicious of the water as a cat of a swimming pool. Dean rose from his crouch and looked across the river. "Think we can get across?" he asked.

"That depends on how deep it is," Castiel replied. He finally reached the bank and lowered the toe of his armored boot into the black liquid. Dean started to smirk at the dainty gesture, but the expression vanished when Castiel gave a discordant hiss and recoiled so suddenly he overbalanced and fell on his hindquarters, scrambling backwards from the water.

"What is it?" Dean demanded. "What's wrong?"

"The water is unholy," Castiel said tightly. His thin lips pulled back from his teeth in the first expression his face had made. His teeth were very white and pointed. "I cannot touch it."

"Well, shit, then," Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Can you fly over it?"

Castiel regained his feet much more gracefully than he had fallen. He fanned his wings out. They still looked tattered, wisps of cloud and smoke trailing from the edges. "No," he said flatly.

Dean ground his teeth together. "Great." He looked back over the water. "Wait here." He prowled over to the water's edge and waded in.

"Dean!" Castiel called out from behind him, sounding panicked. "What are you doing?"

"Testing the depth," Dean called over his shoulder. It was difficult to keep his balance in the swift current, and twice Dean swore he felt something slither against his legs, but he reached the halfway point and the water had only risen to his chest. He turned around and made his way back to the angel. Castiel waited for him on the banks, wings quivering anxiously.

Dean skimmed the water off his body with his hands and eyed the angel. "You can change shape, right?" he asked.

Castiel blinked his golden eyes. "Yes, I have many forms," he replied.

"Can you make yourself smaller?"

The angel stared at Dean. "I don't understand," he said after a moment.

"If I'm going to carry you across the water, you'll have to be smaller," Dean explained impatiently.

"Carry me?" Castiel echoed. He looked at the black water and back to Dean. "I don't think that is a good plan."

"You have a better one?" Dean challenged. When the angel was silent, Dean continued, "You're gonna have to trust me."

Castiel sighed. He spread his wings and wrapped them tightly around himself, so that Dean could no longer see his body. There was that silky whispering sound, and then the wings peeled back, shrinking as they folded between the new shape of Castiel's shoulders.

Dean blinked down at the angel. Castiel now barely came up to Dean's waist. The armor was gone, replaced by a simple pale blue tunic, belted with a silver chain. Castiel's facial features were softer, rounder, and his black hair fell over his forehead into his golden eyes. His proportions were more human, child-like. Even his feet were bare.

Dean couldn't help the snort of disbelief. "You...you're_ little_!" He exclaimed.

Castiel pressed his lips together and fluttered his wings. "That is what you requested, isn't it?" His voice had not changed, making it a strange contrast to his much smaller body.

"Yeah, but I didn't expect..._cute_," Dean replied, now fighting off a grin.

"I am not cute," Castiel protested. "I am a warrior of Heaven."

Dean's grin turned into a chuckle, and the next thing he knew, he was laughing hysterically, years of suppressed emotions bubbling up to the surface in one outpouring of mirth. Castiel crossed his chubby arms and glared up at the human, waiting for him to calm down. It took a while.

When Dean's breathing had finally returned to normal, he took a second look at the angel. "Okay, why do you have a tiny kid among all of the shapes a badass angel can take?"

"This is a reflection of my age in comparison to my brothers," Castiel said flatly.

That took Dean slightly aback. "You mean...you're_ actually_ just a kid?"

"I am the youngest of my brethren," the angel explained with another sigh.

Dean considered that for a moment. "Huh," was all he decided to say in the end, and stooped to catch hold of Castiel around his tiny waist. The angel made a tiny sound of protest that Dean ignored and hoisted him to his shoulders. "Hold tight," Dean instructed. "I'm going to need my arms to balance."

For lack of other handholds, or perhaps out of spite, Castiel seized a painfully tight grip on Dean's hair and gripped Dean's neck between his little knees. Dean winced but decided not to say anything, and waded back into the river.

As the water rose past Dean's knees, he asked, "So how many brothers do you have?"

Castiel was silent for a moment. "There are over two hundred in my garrison alone, and there are many garrisons. Several hundreds of thousands, I would estimate. I am not certain."

Dean whistled. "Man. And I thought having just one was a pain in the ass."

"Tell me of your brother," Castiel requested.

"Sammy?" Dean felt his way forward another step, cautiously testing the bottom of the river and shifting his weight to counter the current. Most of his concentration was focused on not falling rather than the conversation. "I practically raised him, you know? Was always there to take care of him. Had to. Not like anyone else was there for him. Dad was...working. Always had a job. Another case. Sam didn't like the life. Didn't have it in his blood. That's why he left. Wanted to try out the normal life. Didn't work out for him but sometimes...sometimes I wish it had. Because he would have been happy. And that's what you should want for your little brother, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said softly, almost wistfully. Then, "That is more about your brother then you remembered a short time ago."

Dean stopped, his eyes wide. He wobbled a little but regained his balance, feeling Castiel's grip on him tighten. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess it is." He smiled slightly, and then kept moving. "Your turn."

"My turn to do what?"

"Tell me about your brothers," Dean instructed.

"I could speak until the stars fell from the sky and I would not finish telling you of them," Castiel told him seriously.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. Tell me about the ones in your garrison. The ones you're close to."

Castiel considered Dean's request for a while. "My brother Uriel and I have served together for a long time. He is devout in his faith, and true to our orders. He is not much older than I, and we were trained together."

"Yeah? What kind of training does an angel go through?"

Dean felt Castiel's small fingers thread through his hair, kneading at Dean's scalp almost absentmindedly. "The archangels prepare us for war," the angel replied. "To fight as soldiers for Heaven. To carry out our orders without question or hesitation. To work together to further our Father's will."

They were now more than halfway across the river. Dean could see the other bank. He continued to trudge forward, making sure each foot was firmly planted. He didn't want to risk the angel getting injured more than he already was. Especially since Castiel was Dean's only hope of ever seeing Sam again.

"Dean," Castiel suddenly said tightly. Dean jerked his head up. There were figures gathering on the bank of the river. Dean ground to a halt and twisted to look behind him. More demons lined the far shore.

"Shit," Dean spat. "Any ideas?"

Castiel shifted on Dean's shoulders. "Go forward. Get us out of the water."

"Are you sure?" Dean asked with a frown. "I mean, I'm up for a fight, but there's at least ten of 'em."

The angel's small fingers brushed Dean's cheek. "Trust me," he instructed.

Dean clenched his jaw. "All right," he muttered, and started forward again. But as he approached the shore and the waiting demons, his stomach dropped. "Castiel," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't... That's..."

"What is wrong?" Castiel demanded.

"Alastair," Dean managed to force out through a tight throat.

"Who is he?"

"He..." Dean couldn't finish the sentence. Castiel touched his cheek again.

"I understand," he said gently. "But you must trust me, Dean. I have a plan."

Dean swallowed and hunched his shoulders. The water began to recede, falling to his waist and then to his knees. He hesitated in the shallows, eying the demons warily. None of them moved, just stared at the human and the angel with hungry, empty eyes.

Alastair stepped forward and clapped slowly. "Well done," he said in a nasally lisp. "I expected this, you know. I knew the angels were going to make a play for you at some point. But I'm surprised at you, Dean, throwing yourself in with that lot. I mean, after all the times they screwed you over."

Castiel's grip on Dean tightened. "What's he talking about?" Dean hissed at the angel.

"I don't know," he replied in a low voice. "Dean, get us out of the water."

Dean had no desire to get anywhere near the master torturer, but at the angel's insistence, he edged forward until he was standing on dry ground. Alastair tilted his head, an expression of disbelief on his face.

"Though, when I warned Lilith that the angels would move, I didn't expect_ this_." He licked his lips. "It looks so..._delicious._"

The other demons laughed, sounding more like a pack of half-starved hyenas. They shifted eagerly, eyes fixed on the angel. Castiel leaned down and put his mouth next to Dean's ear. "When I say, run. Don't look back."

"I'm not going to leave you," Dean whispered back.

"Don't argue," Castiel said firmly. He straightened. "You have no more claim on this soul, demon," he called out in a strong voice. "He has been marked for Heaven."

"And what are you going to do if I...dispute that?" Alastair challenged with a shark's grin. Dean felt Castiel tense, and then with strength disproportionate to his size, the angel flung himself from Dean's shoulders. Dean saw the child gliding on outstretched wings, and then the tiny body exploded.

When Castiel landed, he wasn't anything near human. There were six razor-edged wings flickering in all directions, making it hard to make his form out clearly, but whatever it was, it was horrifying. Dean thought he saw at least three heads, six eyes blazing with blue-white light. Too many arms flailed around, each gripping a flaming sword. The body was far too supple and moved with an almost boneless grace, slithering through the demons with incredible speed.

Dean was already running when Castiel's voice reached him. "DEAN, RUN!" The terror of seeing the creature Castiel could become, the fear of his "tutor," and the threat of more demons was too much for Dean to overcome. So, to his shame, he fled.

XxxXxxX

Castiel had been injured before. At the hands of demons, and by his own kind. He thought he had experienced pain.

He was wrong.

Pain for an angel was fleeting, lasting only moments before their Grace healed their injury. This...this was different. This pain was lasting. It did not go away. And as the moments passed, it only increased, each new injury adding to the symphony of agony that burned his physical form.

He couldn't fight back, couldn't defend himself. He was too weak, already spent from his previous battles. He opened his eyes only to blink blood out of them. Alastair's face floated into focus above him. The demon was studying the angel's body, tapping a finger on his lips like an artist examining a half-finished masterpiece.

"Interesting," the demon whined. "This has been so...informational. You should be so proud. I mean, after all, this is a prestigious occurrence. The first ever angel to be tortured in Hell. I wonder what will happen when I break you."

Castiel turned his face away, refusing to satisfy the demon with a reply. Alastair leaned down and pressed his nose to Castiel's neck, inhaling deeply. Castiel shuddered with revulsion.

"Mmm..." Alastair hummed happily. "Fear. How many centuries have I waited to taste that from an angel?" He dragged his finger through a rivulet of blood on Castiel's chest and licked it off. "So much sweeter than I expected. Oh yes...you and I are going to do so much together." He picked up another blade.

Castiel closed his eyes and refused to scream.

XxxXxxX

Dean didn't know how long he'd been cowering in the dubious safety of the tiny crevice, but it had been long enough for the fear to fade and his conscience to take over. He'd only stopped berating himself because he'd run out of breath. He'd left Castiel behind. And you never left your partner behind, whether it was your brother or another hunter. He had no idea what had happened to the angel, but it was probably nothing good.

He flinched as yet another demon bounded past his hiding place. They were hunting for him, now. He could hear them calling his name, taunting. It was only a matter of time before they found him, and they would drag him back to Alastair, back to the racks.

Dean knew, logically, that he couldn't hide from the demons forever. He was in Hell, after all. Castiel was still his best and only chance out. So Dean mustered up his courage, and pressed his right hand to the scar on his left shoulder.

It was as if there was a compass needle in his brain and Castiel was the magnetic North. As long as he was touching the glowing mark, he knew exactly where the angel was. The only problem was that it was leading him straight into the thickest population of demons. There was no way he was going to be able to sneak in there. So Dean did the next best thing. He wriggled out of his hiding spot and stood up in plain view.

It took less than a minute for the demons to descend.

They threw him down at Alastair's feet and he tucked and rolled to protect his head. At a gesture from the superior demon, the others backed off, leaving the two alone.

"Dean, I am disappointed in you," Alastair tutted, clasping his arms behind his back. Dean levered himself up to his knees and said nothing. He flicked his gaze around, searching. After a moment, he caught sight of an occupied rack, half-obscured by a tattered curtain.

"I really thought you had potential," Alastair continued. "I thought we were getting somewhere. But I see we still have a lot of work to do."

"I didn't mean it," Dean mumbled, not looking up at the demon.

"What's that?" Alastair questioned.

"The angel made me do it," Dean said a little louder. "I didn't have a choice."

Alastair sighed. "I really wish I could believe that, Dean. But with you running off like that, well, I'm having trust issues." He reached down and grabbed Dean by the back of his neck, hauling him easily to his feet. Dean involuntarily met Alastair's white, empty eyes, and was transfixed.

Alastair tilted his head. "All actions have consequences, my boy. And I'm going to show you the consequences of yours." He dragged Dean over to the curtain and twitched it aside.

Castiel's armor was gone, leaving his body looking strangely thin and vulnerable. His skin was completely covered by either blood or bruises. His hair was matted down over his swollen eyes. There were bite marks in his lower lip. His wings were almost gone, only a few feathers clinging to broken bones. His chest barely moved against the strap over it, the only indication he was, in fact, alive.

Dean's insides clenched in horror and he felt sick, as if he was going to throw up. This was because of_ him._ Castiel would never have come to Hell except to try to save him. The angel was only captured because he sacrificed himself for Dean. This was all his fault.

"Stop," he whispered. "Please, stop."

"Oh?" Alastair asked, intrigued. "Stop what, my boy?"

"You can do anything to me," Dean said. "I'll stay, I won't fight. Put me back on the rack. But just...let him go. Please."

Alastair shook Dean until his teeth rattled. "That's not what I've been teaching you, Dean. Self-sacrifice is what got you into this mess in the beginning, remember?" He threw Dean down to the ground. "You bet I'll put you back on the rack. I'm gonna take you apart in ways you haven't even dreamed of yet. But I'm also gonna give you your wish. I'm not gonna kill the angel. I won't even touch him again."

Alastair crouched to shove his face close to Dean, grinning to show off crooked, broken teeth. "You are," he hissed, his breath stinking of brimstone. "I'm gonna slice and dice and cut you into a new creature. And when I'm done you're going to beg to be able to tear out the angel's heart."

The demon grabbed Dean's jaw in one hand, tilting his head from side to side. "Yes," he said slowly. "We'd better get started." He dragged Dean up and started toward the nearest empty rack, but Dean struggled, knocking into Alastair's tray of tools and sending them crashing to the ground. Alastair twitched in annoyance and released Dean only to backhand the human with enough force to throw him ten feet backwards.

Dean landed on his back hard enough to drive the breath out of his lungs, seeing stars from where his head hit the rock. Alastair stalked over to him and knelt down, straddling Dean's hips. "We've talked about this, boy," he chided. "The more you fight, the harder it is." He grabbed Dean's face again. "This will be much easier if you just give in." He grinned slowly. "Of course, I never liked doing things the easy way." He leaned forward, his face close to Dean's, and inhaled deeply. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he murmured happily.

That's when Dean buried the blade he'd been hiding into the side of Alastair's neck. The demon shrieked in pain and shock, clapping his hand over the spurting, black blood. Dean shoved Alastair off of him and scrambled to his feet, lunging over to Castiel's side. His hands were shaking as he clawed at the restraints.

"Cas?" he called. "Cas, come on. You gotta wake up. I'm going to get you out of here. Cas? Hey!" He slapped the angel lightly on the cheek.

The angel's eyelids fluttered and cracked open. "My name," he rasped, "Is Castiel."

Dean grinned in relief. "Yeah, I know that. Come on. Can you walk?"

The angel stirred weakly. "I...don't know. My wings..."

"Let's worry about getting out of here first," Dean said. "You can lean on me. Let's get you up." He looked for a good place to lift the angel, but there was nowhere without injury, so he chose the least raw skin and began to haul. The angel was heavier than he looked. Just as Dean got him to a sitting position, he was grabbed from behind and thrown into the air.

He hit a rack and landed among the pieces, groaning as wood and metal bit into his skin. He opened his eyes to see Alastair stalking toward him, blood still dribbling from the hole in his neck. "You filthy little whore," the demon snarled, spraying blood from his lips with every word. "I'm going to rip the skin from your flesh."

Dean scrabbled backwards out of the wreckage of the rack, searching frantically for a weapon. Alastair kicked the bulk of the rack out of the way and went down on one knee, grabbing Dean by the throat. His nails sank into Dean's skin and he could feel blood welling up, trickling down the sides of his neck.

"I'm going to make you scream," Alastair growled. "And then I'll rip out your tongue. I'll show you your own beating heart before I cut out your eyes." He pressed the tip of the blade in his hand against Dean's chest, dragging it slowly down toward his navel. "I'm going to kill you horribly,_ intimately_, in every way you fear, and then I'm going to bring you back so I can do it again."

Castiel hit Alastair over the head with a metal pole, knocking the demon off of Dean. Before Alastair could recover, Castiel swung the pole again, catching Alastair's jaw in a perfect upswing and laying the demon flat onto his back. Then Castiel lifted the pole over his head with both hands and drove it down with all his strength, straight through Alastair's stomach and into the stone beneath. Alastair screamed and yanked at the pole, but it stayed fast, pinning him down like a bug.

Castiel wavered and almost fell. He looked barely able to stand, but he still offered Dean a hand up. Dean scrambled to his feet gracelessly but quickly. "We should leave now," Castiel said thickly. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, probably," he agreed breathlessly.

XxxXxxX

"Do you think it'll work?"

Castiel turned to look at the human. "I don't see how we have many choices," he pointed out.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, I'm starting to get tired of hearing that."

"That doesn't make it any less true," Castiel insisted.

"The last time you released your Grace, power, whatever, we had all of Hell descend on us," Dean reminded his companion.

"Well, this time my brothers should reach us first," Castiel said mildly.

"Should," Dean grunted. "That's comforting." He looked down. They were very close to the top of the Pit, the depths of Hell stretching out below them. He turned a pale greenish color and backed away. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

Castiel sighed faintly. It had been some time since their encounter with Alistair. How long, exactly, he couldn't tell, but long enough for most of his injuries to heal. His wings had started to re-fledge, and the feathers were coming in darker then they had been before, nearly black. He was slightly perturbed by the change, but Dean was strangely pleased by the new color.

"Dean, I am going to need to release this form in order to signal my brothers," Castiel warned.

Dean crossed his arms and nodded. "I'm ready," he said firmly.

Castiel shrugged his wings. "Very well." He let his humanoid shape dissolve into a more intangible form, light and shadow and flame and ice. A lance of silver-white light shot upwards into the green-black clouds above them, piercing through the chains and disappearing into the distance. It took some effort to regain corporeal form, but he managed it after a moment.

Dean lowered his arms from his face and looked around. Hunting cries rose in the distance. "I really hope you're right about this," he said tightly.

Castiel followed Dean's gaze into the Pit. "So do I."

Then the ground beneath them began to shake. A beam of pure, white light shot down from above them, slamming into the rock with enough force to throw chips and dust into the air. A figure rose from a crouch, hard to distinguish in the light. Another beam slammed down not too far from Dean and Castiel, bringing a second figure. Then more and more landed until the two were completely surrounded.

For the first time since he'd arrived in Hell, Castiel felt himself relax. One of the figures stepped out of the beam of light, revealing itself to be an angel in a similar form to Castiel, his wings bright gold. "Brother," his voice boomed. "We thought you lost."

"I am here," Castiel announced. "And I have saved Dean Winchester."

"Yes," Castiel's brother agreed. "It's time to bring you home."

XxxXxxX

The familiar halls of his home were a deep comfort to Castiel as he strode along behind two of his brothers. As soon as he had arrived in Heaven, he had been seen to by healers, returning him to full health. They could do nothing about the new color of his wings, however, and they remained dark. Castiel's only real complaint was that he had been immediately separated from Dean.

One of Castiel's brothers pushed open a door and gestured for Castiel to precede him through. Zachariah was waiting for him inside the room. Castiel came to a halt within wing-distance and bowed his head. "Sir," he said respectfully.

"Castiel," Zachariah greeted cheerfully, spreading his arms. "Well done! You far, far exceeded our expectations. I can't tell you how proud I am of you."

"It pleases me to hear you say that, sir," Castiel replied, keeping his emotions off his face.

"After we were driven out, we feared we'd lost you," Zachariah went on. "Let me tell you, it pained me a great deal to report our failure to Raphael. But that's all passed. You've saved Dean Winchester! That's what matters now!"

"What will become of him?" Castiel asked.

Zachariah waved a hand. "We've already sent him back to earth."

Castiel couldn't help the spasm of emotion that passed through his chest at that. Anger, jealousy, frustration, perhaps. He didn't understand the emotion, not fully. But he had sacrificed so much for Dean. Shouldn't he have at least been told?

"You'll be joining him shortly," Zachariah continued, not noticing what had just happened to his subordinate. "You'll be working with Dean closely in the future."

That pleased Castiel greatly. He nodded. "I believe I have already built a rapport with him. It will not be hard for either of us."

"Oh, I'm afraid you're going to have to start from scratch," Zachariah said absently. "We wiped all memory of you from his mind before we restored him to his body."

Castiel froze. "What?" he asked ingeniously, blinking at the other angel.

"We didn't believe those were necessary memories, so we removed them," Zachariah said with a shrug.

Castiel couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't get him in trouble. He thought of all the pain he had been through, of Alastair, of the hellhounds, of watching Dean's slow return to humanity, and all of it had been made worthless by one decision of his superiors. Everything he had been through, everything he had sacrificed rendered meaningless.

Zachariah mistook his silence for acceptance, because he was already turning away, distracted by the next thing on his agenda. "We have a vessel picked out for you. We want you on earth immediately. If that's all?" But he wasn't listening.

Castiel stood there for a moment, fists clenched. Finally he jerked his head in a stiff nod. "Sir," he gritted out. Zachariah didn't even notice him leave.

XxxXxxX

The worst part of walking into that barn was not being shot. Castiel barely felt that. It was the fear and suspicion in Dean's green eyes. The complete lack of any recognition, any acknowledgment of what they had been through together.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded.

It took all of Castiel's strength to keep the truth from spilling from his lips. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," he said instead, his voice rough.

"Yeah, thanks for that," Dean said, and slammed a knife through his chest. The blade did nothing to harm Castiel, but he felt it pierce all the way to his Grace. He had never felt loss like this, never felt such pain.

He felt betrayed.

And for the first time, Castiel felt his heart break.


End file.
